


Age of Innocence

by allaire mikháil (allaire)



Series: Marks [1]
Category: Babylon 5
Genre: "Shadows Past and Present" is canon, "The Price of Peace" is canon, "To Dream in the City of Sorrows" is canon, Babylon 5 (1995) comics are canon, M/M, Pre-Slash, season 1 episode tags, select Babylon 5 novels are canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 18:03:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 11,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allaire/pseuds/allaire%20mikh%C3%A1il
Summary: "When we were all so young and innocent, without broken hearts, we were so beautiful."~UnknownJeff Sinclair is friends with Michael Garibaldi. Talking to each other helps them come to terms with recent events onBabylon 5. (This is season 1 in post-credit scenes, and it hurts so good.)





	1. Post-Pilot "The Gathering"

Sinclair was sitting on the bench he'd shared with the Minbari ambassador not so long ago, but the Japanese zen garden failed to hold his attention, and the quiet sound of the monorail train going overhead was easily ignored. A voice jerked him out of his brooding: "There you are. You have any information on who's going to replace Laurel?"

It took a moment for his eyes to focus on the person approaching the bench. The brown uniform was a dead giveaway, but Sinclair first recognized the decidedly non-military posture, the hands buried in the pockets. He smiled involuntarily. "I see you've also decided to leave the party. Is there anyone still sticking around aside from Guerra and Ambassador Mollari?"

Garibaldi poorly hid his smirk. "Londo? As long as there's free booze, I dare you to get rid of Londo without literally twisting his arm. And as long as Laurel is around, Guerra's going to hide in her periphery and pine quietly. I have no idea what he's going to do come next week." He fell quiet for a moment. "Damn, I have no idea what we _all_ are going to do come next week."

"The transport taking her and Dr. Kyle back to earth is scheduled for early Monday morning," Sinclair confirmed. "And no, EarthGov hasn't officially assigned someone else as my XO..."

"C'mon, spill, Jeff! You have your sources."

"And you have yours, Michael," Sinclair volleyed back, amused. "Don't tell me you haven't heard the latest rumors. Knowing you, I think you have the far newer and more accurate scuttlebut anyway."

"Another female Lieutenant Commander by the name of Susan Ivanova. Russian consortium, late thirties. Rumored to be capable, dependable, generally good with rules but sometimes... creative," Garibaldi listed before dropping down to sit next to Sinclair with a sigh.

"That's the same name I've heard," Sinclair confirmed. "Dr. Kyle's replacement still seems to be up in the air, though." He added after a long breath: "I'm going to miss Laurel, you know."

"I'm not so sure you should, Jeff. My investigation into Del Varner and the Minbari assassin has... posed some interesting questions, let's put it like that." Garibaldi hesitated. "I promise I'll read you in once I have more than a gut feeling."

Sinclair sent him a sharp look, but capitulated when faced with the set of his normally so easy-going friend's face coupled with a mute plea for understanding. "You're not just my chief of security, you're my friend and I trust you. Still, don't you think it's more than a coincidence that Laurel, Dr. Kyle _and_ Ms. Alexander are all recalled to Earth at more or less the same time?"

"Yes, I do." They shared a long look before Garibaldi resolutely changed the topic. For the first time, Sinclair couldn't decipher the expression on his face. "Rumor also has it that the captain of a certain transport vessel hasn't called even once after filing a flight plan back towards the Damocles sector. True or false?"

Sinclair didn't even try to hide his grimace. "As though you don't know. True. I think Carolyn didn't want a fight after everything. I can't fault her for giving up on me. Babylon 5 has all of my attention and I knew she'd become tired of coming in second."

Michael gave him an awkward pat on his shoulder, but gave no signs of wanting to leave. They stared into the artificial sunrise together and for the first time since the Vorlon ambassador's arrival at the station, Sinclair felt at peace.


	2. Post-Pilot "The Gathering"

The door chimed. He felt too exhausted to move out of his graceless sprawl in front of the viewing screen and deactivated the door lock verbally without even inquiring as to the identity of his late visitor.

The face entering his field of vision was a welcome one, though. “Michael!” He exclaimed with genuine pleasure. "Computer, fade." The programm turned off. He couldn't have said what he'd been watching anyway. Something mindless. He tried to sit up a little in greeting, but abandoned the attempt after the sofa's padding didn't give him the necessary purchase. It was only Michael, after all. No need to stand on ceremony. His friend wasn't here for Commander Sinclair, Station Commander, but simply for Jeff. “What brings you by at this hour?”

Garibaldi seemed to stop short at his smile for a second before scowling at him. He was hefting a plastic tub a delicious smell was wafting from. “Don't think I've forgotten that you've stolen my ride with Delta Flight today, _Commander_. Today, I've felt sorry for Ambassador Mollari, tried to explain to Ambassador Delenn what fun is, and had to calm down a hysterical Ms. Winters.” He sighed loudly, shoved the tub at Sinclair and dropped heavily onto the sofa next to him. “Popcorn isn't enough to reconcile me with what you've dragged me into, Jeff. This is... it's like riding herd on a bunch of kindergarteners! And the whole thing promises to turn into even more of a nightmare once all of the ambassadorial staff has taken up their posts, if Londo’s exitable aide is an indication.”

Sinclair sighed just as deeply and knocked his shoulder into his friend's. “I know. I'm not a diplomat, for heaven's sake. I still don’t understand why I got this post in the first place. Sometimes I wonder whether it was a punishment from on high. Well, at least the election's done with, so maybe EarthGov will--” He stopped himself with a moan that sounded pitiful to his own ears and dug the heels of his hands into his gritty eyes.

“Coffee. The rest of the popcorn that's wasted on a _Minbari_. A vid that makes you laugh. Good company.” The sofa moved as Michael got up. He sounded as though he was smiling: “Relax, Jeff. Almost two years in and the station's still standing.” A squeeze to his shoulder left him strangely warm as he listened to the sounds of Michael moving to the kitchenette.

Sinclair couldn't help but smile at his friend's determined cheerfulness. He raised himself a little and stole a kernel from the tub. It tasted as good as it smelled. He suddenly felt a lot less tired.


	3. Post-1x02 "Soul Hunter"

The lush greenery around him failed to soothe him, but maybe that was because you had to be a Drazi to enjoy the smell of the enkalak bushes fresh in bloom. As least the fruits they bore tasted a whole lot better.

Before he could turn off his comm link, it chimed with a call. He sighed and responded. “Sinclair.”

“Jeff, is everything alright?” Garibaldi sounded concerned, and even though Sinclair had his eyes closed, he could picture his friend's face perfectly, from the curl to his mouth to the darker creases under his eyes left by exhaustion.

“Michael, I'm fine. Dr. Franklin released the guard attacked by the rogue soul hunter and said he'd be fit for duty in another 48 hours. Ambassador Delenn,” Sinclair couldn't quite suppress the arch tone that had crept into his voice, “is back to her old mysterious self. You should get some rest.”

“You're a fine one to talk, Commander,” Garibaldi chided. “The soul hunter cracked two of your ribs. He might have looked like someone's dotty old uncle, but fanaticism, alien physique and a mental break don't make for a good combination.”

The voice from his comm link developed a slight echo, and the gravel on the footpath crunched at someone's approach.

Sinclair tapped the comm link to shut it off and let his hands sink into his lap. He couldn't help the twitch to his lips and startled when he felt a warm cup being pressed into his hands. The coffee inside sloshed a little before he got a good grip of the cup. “Thank you, you're a lifesaver,” he breathed.

He felt Garibaldi's eyes scan him before the other man settled down next to him on the bench. “I feed you, I water you. Perhaps I ought to change my job description.”

“From chief of security to chief babysitter? Sure.”

“I'll take father confessor, too.” Garibaldi's voice had lost its relaxed drawl and had become acerbic enough to cut. Sinclair flinched.

“Something's eating you, Commander. And I'm willing to bet a hundred credits it has something to do with Ambassador Delenn. Tell me, Jeff, did you get any sleep? Was it that talk about Dukhat's death that reminded you of the Line?”

Sinclair wanted to become angry, wanted to snap back that his dreams were none of Garibaldi's business before he registered the genuine concern on his friend's face. He deflated with a sigh. “Knowing you, you've already talked to Dr. Franklin about what exactly Delenn said,” he muttered resignedly. “Tell me, what do you think of her? Why did her planet, out of all the Minbari, send _her_ to Babylon 5?”


	4. Post-1x03 "Born to the Purple"

“You left me a message containing a pretty disjointed rant about gremlins,” Sinclair announced upon entering Garibaldi's quarters. “In view of your radio silence since, I assume you've found out who was behind the unauthorized use of the Gold Channels.”

Garibaldi looked up from the pad he was reading, grimaced and admitted: “I sure did. Turns out the user was authorized and the conversation private. A stickler for the rules might make it out to be a misuse of Earth Alliance equipment, but--”

“You have a well-developed sense of when and which rules to follow,” Sinclair conceded. “As long as the misuse was only temporary, I don't need to know any more than this.”

Garibaldi was in civvies. He looked rumpled, comfortable, a bit sleepy. The vid screen was showing the news with the sound turned off. Sinclair couldn’t place the piece of soft classical music that was playing. A modern composer of the 21st century would be his guess. He suppressed a yawn and fought the urge to invite himself to stay for an hour or two. It was late, and the negotiations about the Euphrates sector wouldn't be wrapped up until the final meeting the next day. _If_ Ambassadors Mollari and G'Kar didn't manage to sink them in the eleventh hour.

“Thank you for your brief on the seamy underbelly of the station. Came in handy.”

“I heard,” Garibaldi said. “Londo was rather close-mouthed about the _reason_ the two of you played detectives noirs in-between dancers and shoot-outs, but he also couldn't shut up about your... poise and cunning, I believe he put it.” He grinned. Sinclair felt himself unconsciously mirroring the smile. The urge to stay intensified.

“It was-- rather fun,” he admitted. “I surprised myself. I think I would have enjoyed it even more with another partner-in-crime--” Garibaldi inexplicably blushed a bit at the veiled compliment, “but when Mollari is properly motivated, he can be quite tenacious.” He paused and ruthlessly suppressed the part of him that didn't give a shit about being well-rested and well-prepared for another round of double-speak and more or less well-hidden self-interest threatening at the horizon.

It was time to leave. “Well, I don't want to keep you. I'm expected back at the Council Chambers at 10 a.m. If you hear a comm transmission about someone being strangled, take your time in getting there. It might be G'Kar losing his patience with Mollari's devil-may-care attitude... or it might be me banging their heads together. Good night.”

The door closed on Garibaldi's soft, belated “Good night, Jeff.”

Sinclair went to sleep with a smile.


	5. Post-1x04 "Infection"

"I didn't just invite you here in order to tell you that Earth Senate seems to think I've done well in the ISN interview, although that is a relief. I have no plans to find myself on the Rim. You'll be sad to hear that 'Commander Garibaldi' doesn't seem to be in the cards for your near future," Sinclair joked.

He couldn't read Garibaldi's face, but it was safe to say that the levity he was trying for hadn't been achieved by one lighthearted crack.

He sighed and admitted, "I'm a bit... resentful that you managed to strike a nerve, just like that, especially one I haven't even consciously thought of in a good long while. I don't want to die. Oh, there was a time after the War, when I felt lost and guilty for surviving." He stared over Garibaldi's shoulder. His eyes burned. "I’ve been taught that is a sin to take your own life. But there were so many places on the edge of a precipice, first on Earth and later on Mars. I just... waded in. I wasn't afraid. And let me tell you, there were some rather hairy situations that I simply charged in as though I was invulnerable. It has always turned out well. I got commended, I even got promoted for it. So I just... kept going."

"Do I have to remind you that you cannot keep doing that here? You're the station commander, you are Earth's voice on par with three alien diplomats who are the only ones of their kind installed in neutral territory." Garibaldi's voice was steady. "I understand and I will never say anything when you decide to hop into a starfury and personally check out something in this sector as long as you don't go alone, hotshot pilot that you are."

They shared a tremulous smile.

Garibaldi continued: "But you can't keep risking your life here on the station. I'm your chief of security, and _you need to let me do my job_. I take the risks so you don't have to, because I am far more replaceable than you are." He held up his hand. "Ah, ah, don't deny it. It's a fact. You're my friend, and of course I'd go the extra mile for you that I sure as hell wouldn't have gone for my last five COs like your reporter so charmingly reminded me. But I hope I've proven to you that you _can_ , in fact, rely on me to do my job here, and do it well."

Sinclair's eyes shot to his friend's, a feeling of horror surging up in him. "Please, Michael, believe me, you have my full confidence. I've never taken over from you because I've doubted your competence or your conviction, I'm just--"

"A man of action, I know," Garibaldi finished. "You're not one to lead from behind. That's what makes you someone so... easy to follow." He fell silent with an embarrassed wince. "Please, Jeff, I need to be sure you know which way is up, that you have something worth living for. Let me help. It can be my turn for once."

Sinclair held Garibaldi's gaze and tried to infuse his voice with all the conviction he held: "I don't need a cause worth dying for. I'm alive, and I find that finally, I am grateful for it. I think I might have finally found my place in this life. I--I sometimes wonder whether there isn't more behind my survival than simply luck, but--" He swallowed the rest of the sentence, not sure whether it would make him sound conceited or overtly religious.

No matter, it was enough. The sheer _relief_ on Garibaldi's face made his own heart lighter.


	6. Post-1x05 "The Parliament of Dreams"

“You've been ducking me at least twice the last couple of days,” Sinclair announced and relished the way Garibaldi twitched a little, not having seen him coming. They were standing close enough to one another that he saw his friend swallow and deliberately look away.

“I'm not someone bound to run away--” Garibaldi fell silent and finally looked at him, apparently having found his resolve. “I apologize, Commander. I've been busy, but that's no excuse. I just-- dammit, Jeff, I don't know what to say or to think! At first you act as though you want to avoid Catherine only to seek her out and have a romantic dinner with her later!”

“You're not my girlfriend, Michael,” Sinclair bit out. “No, wait!” He reached out and grabbed Garibaldi's arm when his friend had wordlessly turned to leave. “I'm sorry. I know this back and forth dance between Catherine and me is something you've witnessed far too many times, and we both know how it usually ends. I leave, or she leaves, I—I _mope_ around for far too long, complain to you how much I regret having been weak _again_ , swear I'll never as much as exchange a single word with her... and then we do it all over again.”

They walked along Babylon 5's hallways together like so many times before, but their pace was just slighly out of sync. They almost bumped into the security patrol making their rounds through the alien sector. Garibaldi nodded at his team and continued ambling along with his arms clasped tightly behind his back. He appared as though he wished he were somewhere far, far away.

Sinclair tried to make it easier. “You're a good friend. You only tried to prevent me from getting onto that roller coaster for the... what? Fifth time? Since I've introduced the both of you. There's something between us, though. We _know_ we're bad for each other, and yet we simply can't let go. And,” he looked at his friend's averted face, “I'm doing it again. Offloading to you about Catherine. Normally I would say I hoped I could stop, but, Mike... maybe this time--”

He couldn't define the expression on Garibaldi's face. Dread?

“Maybe this time we'll really make it. None of us has snuck away at dawn. She had to leave for the Deneb sector or lose her commission, but she promised to be back next week. I really hope that this time, we'll get it right. We used to be so good together. Maybe we truly can be again.”

“If that is what you really want, Jeff, you know I support you whole-heartedly. Just-- please, don't ask me to make nice with her until I know for sure that the two of you are for keeps. And... you might want to button up your collar a little more. You have a spot there.”

Garibaldi sent him a sharp smirk and hurried away with a “Later, Commander.”

Sinclair ducked into the nearest facilities and took a look. There was indeed a hickey showing in the hollow of his throat. Hardly appropriate when in uniform. He fixed his collar and returned to C&C without being able to put word to the uncomfortable feeling swirling in his stomach.


	7. Post-1x06 "Mind War"

“Thank God that man is off the station. I think you've made an enemy there, Commander.”

Sinclair could only smile tiredly at that. “Only time will tell when or how Mr. Bester retaliates, Mike. Because he _will_. You're right, that is not a man accepting defeat with equanimity.”

“Not a man used to defeat,” Garibaldi muttered. “I _hate_ arrogant bastards like him who think they're so unique, important and above the rest of us poor mortals that rules don't apply to them, and I hate it even more when they are in a position to back up their presumptuousness with psi powers that could turn us into drooling vegetables.” He shook himself. “To have someone like that rummage around in my brain makes we want to take a long, hot shower. Maybe the next time the Corps comes knocking, we should deny them the right to use the jumpgate. Even telepaths can't breathe in a vacuum after all.”

Sinclair wished it were that easy. But the two Psi cops had had EarthGov's backing. Letting Bester assert his authority on Babylon 5 had felt like a betrayal to everyone on the station. “Talia surprised me today,” he mused, “The way she went against Bester and Kelsey despite the scan they'd just forced her to submit to--” He still felt the last vestiges of the initial burst of outrage, disgust and pity that had made him attempt to stop the scan.

He finally remembered what that moment had reminded him of, and had to fight nausea at the realization. In his career, he'd had two cases of rape come up under his command. The eyewitness account to one of them had been chilling in how it had been for the woman's minor son to be forced to watch, helpless. Standing by while Bester and Kelsey forced their way into Talia Winter’s mind had felt awfully similar.

“She's one of us, Jeff. You've kept her safe.” Garibaldi tried to soothe.

“For now. Whatever Ironheart left her with will draw their attention to her sooner or later." He shook himself and continued, speaking almost to himself: "First the Syria Planum incident five years ago, now the warnings of secret experiments. The Corps is taking steps that are disturbing. Sooner or later, there'll be a conflict brewing, and we mundanes will be utterly unprepared for the war to come."

He didn't know where his sudden conviction was coming from. No matter, he knew he would be able to keep counting on Garibaldi's calm, steady support. Whatever future was threatening, he was grateful he wouldn't be facing it alone.


	8. Post-1x07 "The War Prayer"

"The Earth Alliance Special Transport has cleared the jumpgate. It's time for a break," Sinclair announced upon entering Garibaldi's office. "I have something for you."

"Please tell me it's not another one of your off-the-cuff plans to infiltrate a terrorist group," Garibaldi begged. "I just got Cargo Bay 5 scrubbed and patched up after your last firefight." He leant back in his chair, his expression deadpan, and twitched his eyebrows at Sinclair. His desk was covered in a detritus of haphazardly stacked pads, data crystals, several issues of the _Universe Today_ , a... was that a disassembled welding torch? Why would--?

Garibaldi was immune to his stern look. "You here to remind me of the regs, Commander?" Sinclair only had to look a bit more closely to see the minute quivers in the corners of his friend's mouth and couldn't suppress his own smile. 

"No. That's not a battlefield I plan to set a single foot upon," he joked back. "No, Mike, I'm not here on official business. Here." He unceremoniously thrust a stasis container at the other man. "I'm sorry, I know it's two months late. Happy birthday."

They hugged. Garibaldi smelled of fading traces of his usual aftershave and laundry detergent. Sinclair took a deep breath and felt his tension headache lessening. Malcolm Biggs and the rest of his Home Guard co-conspirators would stand trial on Earth. Sinclair had made it through an short impromptu meeting with the same alien diplomats he'd played off against Briggs in order to gain the man's trust and had apologized to all of them for the deception. Dr. Franklin had judged the Centauri boy to be well enough to be released from medlab. The leader of the agricultural delegation from Abba Four had apparently developed a friendship with Delenn and her poet friend and decided to postpone her departure for a few more days. Everything was on the way back to normal.

"Thanks. Do I get a hint as to what it is you've gotten me?" Garibaldi asked with a playful smile. "My expertise and my nose as your chief of security," he tapped the organ in question and sniffed demonstratively around the container's air-tight seal, "tell me it's something perishable. Hmm..."

"Oh, stop it, you dumbass." Sinclair had to laugh. "I got you some of that fancy authentic Italian pasta you like, with the three different kind of stuffings. The shipment got stalled somewhere in transport; I'd all but written it off. The readout says the stasis field is intact, so the contents should still be edible. I hope. It would be a shitty gift otherwise."

"So _that_ 's why I only got a harried handshake on my actual birthday," Garibaldi drawled, "you were embarrassed that your present hadn't arrived!"

Sinclair returned Garibaldi's teasing smile with one of his own. "You mean the turmoil because of the raider attacks on the transport ships back then as well as the Ragesh III incident had nothing to do with it? Yes. You nailed it." He patted his friend's shoulder mock-condescendingly.

"Thank you, Jeff."

Sinclair suppressed the need to fidget. He'd always been bad with honest gratitude. And Michael deserved someone going a bit out of their way for him. What did it matter than the shipment hadn't been cheap. He'd only wanted to treat him to something Sinclair knew he'd enjoy. "You're welcome."


	9. Post-1x08 "And the Sky full of Stars"

"Computer, security override delta-five-zero-tango-epsilon-seven-nine, Garibaldi, Michael Alfredo. Engage door lock."

Garibaldi leant against the bulkhead of his quarters while the tumbler audibly clicked into place. His entire body projected aggressive confidence, but his face poorly hid what Sinclair recognized as trepidation.

"What are you doing?" He couldn't help the way his voice rose a little at the end. Garibaldi was his friend, he knew that with every fiber of his being, and yet even the idea of being confined had the beginnings of terror clawing at his insides. He felt feverish and like the skin was itching all over his body. According to Dr. Franklin, the aftereffects of the drugs the two men had injected him with would take another 24 hours to wear off.

"Funny thing there, Jeff. Lou - you know Lou Welch - told me that the cybernet we seized had been taken out of lockup and been transported to the commander's quarters. Together with the rest of the evidence found in that room in the Red Sector. As per the commander's direct orders." Garibaldi continued as though against his will: "The doc said the net is broken beyond repair, and the psychotropic compound is useless without it. Playing with it is dangerous and would most likely damage the mind of whoever tried to use it." He fell silent.

Sinclair just stared at him and refused to blink.

"Please tell me you haven't tried to use it. Dammit, I'm _begging_ you, say you're not stupid or desperate enough to fry your brain for the sake of trying to recall the memories of something those two bastards have you convinced must have happened!"

There was open distress on Garibaldi's face. He'd stepped close enough to Sinclair to put his hands on his shoulders and was shaking him a little. The warm, heavy pressure felt good, especially against the phantom memory of too tight cuffs forcing his arms wide until they tingled with lack of circulation while warm blood was oozing down his face.

He swayed forwards and let his aching head sink onto the other man's neck. The proximity, the inexplicable feeling of _safety_ made him admit: "I thought about it, but my sanity refused to let me. I'm not quite that desperate yet. Something _happened_ during the Line, Michael. I really don't believe anymore that I 'blacked out'. But I can't talk about it yet. Please don't force me to."

Garibaldi hugged him hard and they just breathed together for a long moment. Was he feeling the same mix of fury, terror, pity and determination, Sinclair wondered, that he himself had felt the last time Garibaldi had fallen off the wagon?

He wouldn't find his answers in the cybernet, and he sure as hell wouldn't find them in a confrontation with Delenn. But the hole in his mind was _real_. He would find a way to remember whatever it was he'd been made to forget.


	10. Post-1x09 "Deathwalker"

“I can't say I'm unhappy the Vorlons spared us the drawn-out controversy that would have resulted out of Earth Alliance's decision to sponsor Jha'dur's research into her anti-agapic,” Sinclair admitted. “Not that I believed in her dire predictions of Earth tearing itself apart in order to harvest her mysterious, non-synthesizable ingredient.”

They were relaxing in Garibaldi's quarters. The newest entertainment vid hadn't been half as good as the hype on ISN had made it sound, but the night had provided a much-needed come-down from the stress of the last two days. He stretched his arms out on the sofa and smiled a bit sleepily at Garibaldi who'd gotten up in order to get them something to drink.

“She might have been an insane mass murderer,” Garibaldi countered, “but she wasn't lying. She believed every word she said.”

“Yes, she did. Still. You know I'm not much of a history buff, but my mother was an expert on North American Literature of the twentieth century. It's just like adrenochrome,” he finished a bit nonsensically. At Garibaldi's look of confusion, he explained: “Adrenochrome was a myth, a drug that could only be extracted from a living person's adrenal gland. In order to harvest it, you had to kill.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I'm not surprised. Scientific research soon proved that it didn't have any hallucinogenic properties at all and could be easily replicated in a lab. I have no doubt that Jha'dur discovered _something_ that slowed her aging, although it might very well have been something that only worked on Dilgar anatomy. That it required a metaphysical component? That I don't believe. I think she'd lost all rationality in her eagerness to wring meaning from all the death she caused, and so she justified her atrocities by claiming it was all about 'buying immortality through murder'.” He found that he'd talked himself into a rage and stopped, embarrassed.

Garibaldi had stopped short of sitting down again and was staring at him a bit incredulously. “You could have just said that you considered her opinion on the self-serving character of humankind to be offensive, Jeff.”

Sinclair couldn't help himself and gave a short bark of laughter. “Apparently I haven't become a pessimist yet, despite all tries by the universe to change me to the contrary. Now if _that_ isn't a thought worth celebrating.”

He was suddenly entirely unprepared for this evening to end, to return to the quiet of his own quarters when he could have _this_ instead. So he toasted Garibaldi's glas of soda with his own and suggested, “Well, since we're apparently 'not ready for immortality', let's behave like the immature race we are and stay up for a while longer. Who needs sleep anyway?”


	11. Post-1x10 "Believers"

"You are aware that your shift ended over an hour ago?"

Sinclair just sighed upon hearing his friend's commentary. "Believe me, I _know_." He typed the final paragraph on the pad he was writing on, added his thumbprint and finally took great care in laying aside the device. It joined its pile of meticulously stacked brethren.

Losing himself in routine work in his office had been preferable to revisiting his decision in the whole respiratory case-- no, in the boy _Shon_ 's case. They'd all lost sight of what it had been about in the end, and that hadn't been their own egos or their own beliefs, but rather Shon's faith and Shon's future.

"A child lost his life today. I haven't quite come to terms with my role in that."

Even in the light of Drs. Franklin and Henderson's decision to violate his ruling in whether or not to perform the surgery and the parents' subsequent act of desperation, he still couldn't see how he could have decided differently. What would they have done if Tharg and M'Ola had simply abandoned and refused to care for their 'spirit-less' child after the operation? Dr. Franklin sure hadn't thought that far ahead. Would they have put a devastated child on suicide watch and forced Shon to grow up with foster parents of a different race and religion, forever a pariah to his own people, his own family? Where could they have even sent him to live? Babylon 5 didn't have an orphanage. And on Earth, even if Earth Alliance had agreed to grant him citizenship, the boy would have remained an outcast.

"Your role in that was the only one you could take, Jeff. You can't blame yourself for what Franklin did, and sure as hell not for his parents' decision to _murder_ the poor kid."

As much as he appreciated Garibaldi's support, he couldn't quite agree. "I failed to think ahead of everyone and to take into consideration Stephen's bullheaded determination 'to do the right thing'," Sinclair admitted. "I should have expected that he'd decide to operate, my or the parents' veto be damned."

"You're not clairvoyant, Jeff. And, as cruel as it sounds, I think this whole affair was a much-needed wake-up call for our good doctor," Garibaldi said firmly. "Dr. Franklin is not God. Having the means to do something doesn't automatically translate into having the _right_ to do it. We don't get to judge other people's religion."

"But we get - no, we have to! - interfere if exercising that religion has harmful consequences for others."

"We are all influenced by our own beliefs and cannot be neutral judges," Garibaldi insisted. "All religion, if taken to an extreme, has the potential to be harmful. We can only try for enlightenment and hope like hell the extremists lose enough support to die out in the long run."

"I didn't know you were a philosopher, Mike." Sinclair knew his friend had depths, but he hadn't expected _this_. Garibaldi shrugged and looked away, strangely shy all of a sudden.

They were once again in step on their way back to their quarters.


	12. Post-1x11 "Survivors"

The evening had passed in a daze of good food and good company. Sinclair nodded at Ivanova when she started complaining about having the early shift tomorrow, and by the quirk of her mouth, she understood that she was free to leave. She wished both men a good night and glid out, a vision in a black dress and loose hair tumbling around her shoulders.

Sinclair, however, quickly drew Garibaldi into another discussion about the most recent novel of a Mars-born author they were both fond of and distracted him from following their friend's example. Garibaldi's participation got more and more sparse until Sinclair almost stopped talking after what felt uncomfortably like a monologue. He tried to persevere, however, took a deep breath and would have found another topic to start when Garibaldi said: "You don't have to try so hard, Jeff. I know what you're doing."

He'd been relaxed into Sinclair's couch, legs crossed, arms spread out onto the back rest, a soft, fond expression on his face. The glass of water on the table next to him felt like a reminder.

"I--" Sinclair found himself at a loss for words. Denial would be a betrayal of their relationship that had covered so many ups and downs over the years, but he resented being so easy to read.

"We've said it so many times together--"

They both chimed in and continued in unison: "Sobriety is a lifelong process, not a short-term goal."

Garibaldi snorted a laugh. And if it had a slightly wet undertone to it, no-one cared. "I fell off the wagon. I don't deny it, I'm not trying to excuse it, and I'm damned well not okay with it. I felt desperate, and alone, and like everything I'd achieved was crumbling around me. I was weak, and I pretended that I forgot - that I didn't _care_ \- what one drink would lead to."

His friend had always been his own worst critic. It hurt seeing him despondent; at least as much as it had hurt to see him hunted and bad-mouthed by a woman he'd initially spoken so fond of. Sinclair blamed himself. The situation had been screwed up and he'd tried his best to help and to reign in Major Kemmer, but in retrospect he could think of several things he should have done differently, in which he could have been a better commanding officer and a better friend.

"No." Garibaldi's voice was intent and suddenly very close. "I won't have you blame yourself, Jeff. You did the best you could. Hell, because of me, you got into a fist-fight with three hull-rats and might very well have ended up with a disciplinary against you if Cutter had succeeded in killing Lianna and me and shoving all the blame for the Cobra bay explosion onto my dead ass."

"If that had indeed happened, you think I would have cared about the damned disciplinary action, Michael?! I almost lost you today." Sinclair turned and Garibaldi was right next to him, still smelling faintly of booze, blood and disinfectant. Just like on Mars, four years, ten, a hundred years ago. It felt like they were damned to come full circle again and again.

They embraced. It seemed to Sinclair like some vague, huge shadow was looming in the future, just outside his range of sight, and he shivered and held on to the well-known body in his arms.


	13. Post-1x12 "By any Means necessary"

Sinclair was only half-conscious when he ordered the computer to let in whoever was at the door and desperately tried to force himself awake. The last couple of days, one catastrophe had been following hard on the heels of another. Why had he fallen asleep? The dock worker strike--

He felt his heartrate slow when his brain finally caught up with the memories of the previous day. "Good morning, Michael." Who else would it be but Garibaldi, loitering around the living area and brandishing a cup of coffee? He added a bit peevishly: "If it _is_ morning, that is. I wouldn't be surprised if I slept for 24 hours. Computer?"

Garibaldi interrupted: "You slept for 16 hours, Jeff. Susan and I decided to deactivate your alarm and take over your shift." He thrust the steaming cup at him. "You damned well needed the rest."

"Am I imagining it or am I hearing a hint of censure?" Sinclair asked idly and rubbed a hand down his cheek. The hint of a beard was annoying. He hadn't had the time to shave the day before, and even daily use of depilatory cream could only do so much. The coffee was hot and tasted heavenly with just the right amount of sugar and cream. 

He saw Garibaldi's expression and groaned. "Yes, I took stims around the time my regular shift turned into a triple shift. You know my stance on them. You can put your concerned face away; I have no intention of going back to Dr. Franklin for more until or unless we have another disaster on hand that threatens the entire station."

The pinched expression to Garibaldi's face relaxed a bit. "Sorry, Jeff. I didn't mean to--"

"I know." Sinclair was aware how much his friend's relapse two weeks ago had put him on edge. He and Susan had silently agreed to abstain from anything alcoholic in Garibaldi's presence since then. Sinclair hardly could ban welcoming drinks from diplomatic functions, but he certainly never again wanted to see his friend fight for his composure while standing next to someone thoughtlessly sipping champagne.

He put the empty cup down with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. He still felt a bit bleary as well as ravenously hungry all of a sudden. He knew he'd have to schedule a meeting with Neeoma Connally and one with Mary Ann Cramer. The Dock Worker's Guild would want the new agreement in writing, and their ISN reporter was a necessary evil, especially after Senator Hidoshi's warning about the climate in Earth Senate. As for G'Kar and Mollari, hopefully their feud wouldn't reach epic proportions again for a while. Sinclair resolved to have a leisurely breakfast and thought Garibaldi and Ivanova deserved the same. C&C would have to deal without them for an hour or so.


	14. Post-1x13 "Signs and Portents"

"This feels like an utter waste of time," Garibaldi complained.

"EAS Cook, no chatter," Sinclair chastised. "Keep the comms open."

He would have bet good money that Garibaldi's reaction to _that_ was an impressive eye-roll. "Open for what, Commander? It's emptier here than in the backrooms of a gambling den once security has made it past the bouncers. I'm telling you, we've wiped the raiders off the map when we destroyed their fighters."

It was Garibaldi who had come to him with the idea in the first place: Fly a shuttle with a reprogrammed transponder signal into raider territory and see whether there was anything left to take the bait. So their most maneuverable shuttle had been disguised as an Earth Alliance freighter with a particularly juicy manifest that was supposedly on its way to Babylon 5, accompanied by two starfuries as an armed escort.

The fact that the entirety of Alpha _and_ Delta Wing was standing by at the station was just insurance.

Ivanova's Russian pragmatism had reared its head and reminded them that Garibaldi needed to renew his qualifications as a licensed shuttle pilot anyway. And Sinclair? Sinclair had simply grabbed an opportunity to get in some flight time. Surprisingly, for once his chief of security hadn't objected.

So they'd set out two hours ago, taking the jumpgate to the edges of what had become raider territory, and made their way towards the Epsilon Eridani system. Garibaldi was bored to tears and sadly, he _wouldn't shut up about it._

Sinclair sighed and radioed the other starfury pilot. "Alpha Seven, any changes to your readings?"

"Yes, John, _please_ tell me you're getting something on the scanners," Garibaldi begged.

The other pilot was a man of few words who seemed to be endlessly amused by their back-and-forth. "Alpha Leader, negative. Not even the ghost of an echo."

Sinclair confirmed and wondered for how much longer he could - and should - keep them on patrol. He'd always found long flights calming and restorative, similar to what others gained from meditating. The vastness of space was so immediate when you were at the controls of a starfury, only two layers, helmet and cockpit, between you and the stars.

Or between you and a painful death. He flashed back to Bill Mitchell and the rest of his squadron, here one moment, a cloud of burning debris the next, and as of recently, the vision of Babylon 5's destruction that was now haunting his dreams.

This little excursion of theirs was pointless, dammit. He ordered, "Alpha Seven, Mike, I say it's time. Return to the station," and ignored Garibaldi's whoop of relief.


	15. Post-1x14 "TKO"

“I'd say you're just a tad preoccupied, Jeff.” Garibaldi noted. “You haven't appreciated--”

“Your tall tale about your adventures in Downbelow with your buddy Walker Smith?” Sinclair shot back. “Single-handedly building bridges to our disenfranchised semi-legal alien population via a bare-knuckle fight event that, in appreciation of Smith's fighting prowess, has now been opened to human contestants?”

Garibaldi leant back in his seat with a pout. “Damn. So you really _were_ listening.”

“Yes.” Sinclair bit back a grin. “I would have liked to meet your friend, you know.”

“Well, I _did_ try to invite you along to Walker's match with the Sho-rin, but I couldn't reach you on comms and C&C told me you weren't available unless it was an emergency...” Garibaldi was a bit miffed but trying to hide it. Oh. Maybe Sinclair should have called him before essentially going off-grid in order to join Susan and Rabbi Koslov in sitting shiva for Susan's father.

The realization that he'd been ignoring his friend made him open up more than he thought he would. “I've been thinking about my mother's death. Joining Susan in mourning her father made me realize that I--I allowed my mother's death to fall by the wayside in the aftermath of the War.” He breathed deeply, remembering. “She died two days after the Minbari's surrender, you know. By that point, my father had been gone for 16 years. I was still all screwed up from the Battle of the Line and Malcolm had just married and moved to Australia. We were both there for the funeral, of course. But we all allowed other parts of our lives to take priority over the woman who'd loved us, nurtured us, supported us...”

“I would have liked to meet her,” Garibaldi said softly. “She must have been an extraordinary woman.”

He attempted some levity: “You're saying that just because of what you've heard about her taste in twentieth and twenty-first-century television.”

“Sure.” Garibaldi's smile was wistful. “But mostly because she raised _you_.”

He knew his friend's relationship with his parents hadn't been free of conflict and he couldn't express how much he appreciated Garibaldi's unconditional support despite his own experiences... living with Alfredo Garibaldi had only ever been an emotional rollercoaster. Add to that a beautiful mother, married far too young, who'd decided to abandon her family for another shot at happiness off-planet.

No, Garibaldi's childhood hadn't been a piece of cake. Sometimes Sinclair was reminded of all the disadvantages his friend had overcome in order to be where he was now, and he felt humbled, and grateful, and so damned _lucky_ they both now served together on Babylon 5. He no longer had to imagine Garibaldi barely scraping by in a dead-end job on a run-down colony, just one step ahead of whichever criminal organization he'd managed to alienate this time by doing his job too well.

Today, in the here and now? His friend looked _happy_.

Suddenly, Sinclair felt close to tears.


	16. Post-1x15 "Grail"

"Michael, I heard a crazy story from Dr. Franklin today--"

"Why the hell did you drag us to meet Gajic off the transport in dress uniform--"

Their questions overlapped when they ran into each other upon entering the mess. Sinclair smiled and gestured at Garibaldi in order to let him go first.

"Gajic proved to be a courageous son of a bitch... in addition to being a total crackpot, of course." Garibaldi gave a wry grin. "But the dress uniforms? You thought we were about to meet a Minbari dignitary of some kind, didn't you?"

"Busted." He fought down the feeling of embarrassment the whole topic evoked. "I'd overslept and accidentally deleted my itinerary for today. I thought I could restore the file once I was in my office, but Delenn ambushed me during _breakfast_!"

Garibaldi broke out into guffaws and Sinclair could no longer fight his reluctant smile. In retrospect, it _was_ rather funny - two of the station's highest ranking officers plus a small honor guard, scrambled together in a hurry, with no idea who they were supposed to be welcoming aboard!

They both grabbed trays and cutlery before queuing behind one of Dr. Franklin's nurses and a C&C tech who were so busy flirting they didn't even notice them.

Sinclair waited until they'd both loaded their trays. As much as he liked making his friend laugh, there was something he was curious to know: "I wonder what made Vir Cotto call Dr. Franklin in a panic, begging him to swear to him that the Na'ka'leen Feeder was really, truly dead. I thought I sent you to assure Ambassador Mollari of the same thing?"

Garibaldi's air of light-hearted amusement vanished. Sinclair found himself wishing he'd kept his question to himself. "You did, and that's exactly what I told him." He scowled at the dessert selection available and restricted himself to a cup of coffee instead. Sinclair also grabbed a bowl of what appeared to be pudding. They swiped their credit chits and found a table. There, Garibaldi continued: "Honestly, as much fun as it was to see Londo panic at first, once we'd mopped up the whole mess, Gajic's body and McLane included, I no longer felt like laughing."

Sinclair nodded. After Runningdeer, McLane, one of Garibaldi's more experienced officers, would also have to relearn everything from talking to dressing himself - without a guarantee that he'd ever again be able to live a self-determined life. "I know what you mean. The most insidious thing about a Feeder attack seems to be that you don't lose your life if medical attention is immediate. It's very similar to a mindwipe."

"Yup." Garibaldi stabbed angrily at a piece of food on his plate. "It's far from the most painful death in the universe, so Londo being afraid of dying was-- well, it felt insulting to McLane, you know? There are worse things than death. McLane has a family."

Sinclair nodded. The degenerative neural disease that had claimed Alfredo Garibaldi's life was a quiet elephant in the room. He silently pushed over his pudding when they'd emptied their plates and the only other thing remaining were their coffees. Garibaldi's half-smile was a reward in itself.


	17. Post-1x16 "Eyes"

"How are you holding up?"

He looked up from the pad he was writing on, recognized Garibaldi and threw aside the device with a wordless sound that hardly expressed his frustration. Rubbing his temples brought only minimal relief. "Not so well. I'm still trying to find the words to describe how much Ben Zayn's actions--"

"Screwed us all over?"

"I wanted to say 'dishonored the uniform we all wear with pride', but that sounded pretentious even to my own ears," he said and grimaced. "My eloquence, or lack thereof, is apparently not helped by how much I want to say 'screw Earthforce Command' and tell them to write their own damned reports."

Garibaldi dropped into the chair in front of his desk. Sinclair read the same disillusionment in his face as the one he'd been feeling ever since General Miller had told him the brass had chosen to sacrifice him in order to shore up support for the president's Trade and Immigration Act. "I know what you mean. You try to do what's best for everyone. And yet nobody appreciates it. Because secretly, they've all been hoping you'll fail." He bit his lip and added with obvious chagrin: "Dammit, Jeff, that came out wrong. It was intended as a general statement, not a personal one."

"No need for apologies, Mike. You can bet that everyone who ranked higher than me on the list for command of B5 would dearly love to see me fail. So would their patrons, sponsors and allies, whether within the service or on the political side of things." He thrummed his fingers on the table and continued slowly: "What I find particularly disquieting is that Ben Zayn knew I'd gotten command here because the Minbari picked me. Does that simply mean he has good contacts or has it become common knowledge?"

"I can ask around," Garibaldi offered. "You're right, we do have a problem if everyone knows about the Minbari's interference. You can bet that little fact would turn a _whole_ lot more people against you."

"All pro-Earth groups. Everyone with grievances from the War. The people who've always thought that the handful of survivors of the Line, and me in particular, must have betrayed Earth in order to make it out alive," Sinclair listed calmly.

"I don't understand how you can be so... matter of fact about this, Jeff!" Garibaldi burst out. "Prejudice and xenophobia are on the rise everywhere. It feels more and more as though you need to be 18 light years away from Earth in order to be ready, willing and able to see the big picture. The brass stabs you in the back at every turn and _I hate it_. You don't deserve this crap."

Sinclair couldn't help but feel his dismal mood lighten at the heartfelt words. "Thank you." He shoved his chair back and got up. "You know what, I'm feeling rebellious. The report can wait another couple of hours. Let's get dinner. My treat." He dragged his oddly frozen friend out of his office.


	18. Post-1x17 "Legacies"

"C'mon, Mike, that combination was weak," He teased and made a step to the side.

His opponent, panting, dropped his fists and shook his head to get the sweat out of his eyes. "Yeah, well, I've lost count, but somehow I'm not surprised that punch number ten thousand is just a _little bit_ weaker than punch number one. Good God, why am I doing this to myself?"

Sinclair just smirked and drawled: "You love to exaggerate, don't you? Let me see... Well, it's because somehow you consider yourself an expert in boxing, because you know we've both been slacking off recently, because me being here means Susan has to be on duty instead of being in the gym, mocking you, and--"

"Okay, okay, Jeff, you win." Garibaldi rolled his eyes. "You're a strict taskmasker. My left shoulder hurts. I think we should switch."

They exchanged pad for gloves, took the opportunity to swig some water and finally continued with their roles reversed. Soon, Sinclair had fallen almost in a meditative rhythm, trying to hit the pad as quickly, as highly and with as much power as possible. Garibaldi had found a good stance and hardly moved with each impact.

"Maybe I should have convinced _you_ to train for the Mutai," Garibaldi speculated. "For how many years did you hold an instructor rating in unarmed combat during your time at the Academy?"

"For four years, as you well know." He'd always been interested in more than just flying.

He tried a combination of jab-cross-jab, repeated it, then included knee strikes. Garibaldi grunted at the first impact against the pad.

Neroon had mainly used punches and that one kick against him that thankfully hadn't connected. He was grateful for those four years at the Academy; the counter to the Minbari's forearm chokehold had come automatically. If Neroon's first attack had been successful, Sinclair doubted the fight would have ended in his favor.

“I'd dearly love to know how the Minbari warrior caste trains,” Garibaldi mused. “Isn't their favorite weapon some kind of bo staff?”

Sinclair just grunted, gestured at his friend to lower the pad and continued with kicks. Normally, he'd have thought of asking Delenn for information, but after the ambassador's recent actions, actions that had almost brought on a reprise of the Earth-Minbari War, he needed time. Time to get over his disappointment, mainly.

He shook himself and became aware of the exhaustion that had crept over him. His clothes were drenched in sweat, his knees felt weak, his hands hurt despite the protective gloves.

Garibaldi didn't look much better. His friend had lowered the pad and was rubbing his right biceps and the red mark that had developed there from the repeated impacts. He wasn't uttering a single word of protest, though, apparently willing to let Sinclair continue to sweat out his demons in the ring. His blue shirt was clinging to his torso, his damp hair a darker shade of brown than usual.

Sinclair shook himself and suggested they end their training session.


	19. Post-1x18/1x19 - "A Voice in the Wilderness"

"As much as I appreciate your support, Jeff, I think it's time for you to leave. You can't help me with this." Garibaldi's voice was matter-of-fact, and Sinclair had known his friend for long enough to tell that this was him at his most intractable.

Still, he had to try. "What do you mean? Remember a certain night you dragged me out of my bout of self-pity, locked away a bottle of something that didn't taste half as good coming back up as it did going down, and poured at least a liter of coffee into me?" He vividly recalled the night after Carolyn broke up with him. Via voice message, not in person, not even by video - no, via voice message. What a way to make him feel like an absolute ogre.

Garibaldi had listened to him rant, and yell, and complain. Had kept him from punching the wall more than once, had assured him that he wasn't unlovable or hopelessly fucked up, that he'd only been unlucky in love, that there were people out there who liked rigid, uncommunicative, moralizing workaholics who refused to leave Earthforce despite the fact that they still had screaming nightmares of the War at least twice a month.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to fall off the wagon because of this," Garibaldi said, pacing. He must have just changed into chivvies. His shirt, still partially unbuttoned, clung to his shoulders. "I lost Lise two years ago. Today only solidified it. First I couldn't see myself commit to anyone... or anything..." They both knew it was Babylon 5 they were talking about and shared a little smile, "and once I'd learned I _could_ , fate told me I didn't deserve it. Am I still torn up about it? Sure. But there's nothing anyone can do. It's too late."

"But what if it wasn't too late? I can't imagine someone you love willingly settle for anyone else." Sinclair blurted out and stopped, embarrassed.

His friend stared at him for a long moment, blue eyes uncomfortably sharp and intense, before he seemed to shake himself. "According to my sources, Franz Thoris is a successful businessman and a good guy. Lise chose well. Unless he's hiding a _lot_ , Lise and I will never be more again other than old acquaintances who no longer keep in touch."

Sinclair didn't know what to say.

"No need for that long face, Jeff. You are happy with Catherine... you _are_ happy, right?" Garibaldi's eyes seemed to bore holes into him all of a sudden.

"I don't see her nearly as much as we'd both like to," he admitted slowly. "But yes, I think we finally got it right. I believe we have a future together."

"Then that's all that matters. You hold onto her and not let go, okay, Jeff? At least one of us deserves to be happy." Garibaldi attempted to smile. "Today is a good day. The _Hyperion_ 's on her way - and good riddance! -, Epsilon III is stable again, B5 is still in one piece, Delenn and Londo have come to an understanding, and now? It's time for intrepid commanders who almost started a war with an Earthforce cruiser to wander off to bed. Go, go!" He shoved a chuckling Sinclair almost bodily out of the door.

"If not for Delenn, the Great Machine really would have cost us a whole lot more today," he thought he heard Garinaldi mutter before the bulkhead closed all the way.


	20. Post-1x20 "Babylon Squared"

"What exactly did _you_ see during the time distortion? You seemed pretty thrown."

Sinclair put aside the pad he'd been reading and regarded Garibaldi calmly. "Either _the_ future or _a_ potential future. Babylon 5 getting overrun. Someone or something burning through the bulkheads. You in a flak jacket, wielding a flamethrower, telling me to to because you'd rigged the fusion reactors to blow."

Garibaldi grimaced. "Damn, I wish I hadn't asked. Why a _flamethrower_ of all things? That's not exactly standard issue."

"I don't have the faintest idea. The encounter with Babylon 4 leaves us with more questions than answers, I'm afraid." He sighed and grabbed the thermos. Garibaldi nodded at his raised eyebrow, so he poured them both more coffee. "I think that alien, Zathras - he knew me," he finally confessed the one thing that had refused to leave him alone. "He said something about me 'having a destiny', whatever that means."

"I'm really, _really_ really getting tired of hearing this mystical crap left and right," Garibaldi burst out. "Our jobs are stressful enough as it is, especially in light of the... recent developments... on Earth." They shared a look. "You're the jesuit-raised meditation aficionado who reads Minbari texts for _fun_ and catches glimpses of the future. C'mon, oh great sage, tell me what you've learned!"

"That even men destined for... something... fasten their pants first before they close the zip," Sinclair deadpanned.

Garibaldi stared at him for a second longer before he broke down into helpless laughter. Sinclair couldn't help but join in.

"Thank you, Jeff, I needed that," he finally breathed, a couple of sniggers still breaking through.

"My pleasure. But honestly, Michael, are you okay? You've been-- I don't know, different. More closed-off, maybe." Sinclair suppressed a wince. He hadn't planned to ask. Not with the way he'd been keeping his friend at arms' length recently, suddenly addressing him almost exclusively by his last rather than his first name. Somehow they seemed out of sync and he had no idea why.

"Still the same old existential crisis, Jeff. When the distortion hit me on B4, I flashed back to Lise breaking up with me in '56," Garibaldi tried to smile, didn't quite manage, looked away, toyed with his empty cup. Sinclair was suddenly convinced that that wasn't the whole truth. He put his hand on Garibaldi's shoulder and felt him startle badly. "Whenever you need to talk, remember, my door's always open," he offered quietly, sincerely and hoped very much that his friend would take him up on the offer.


	21. Post-1x21 "The Quality of Mercy"

"Susan's complained to me about you blocking the Gold Channels with inquiries and data transfers. Mind telling me what that is all about, Mike?" Sinclair asked. He dropped two binders with flimsies onto Garibaldi's desk. "From Ombudsman Wellington's office."

"Still for the Mueller case," Garibaldi replied absently, preoccupied with scrolling through a file he was reading.

"I thought the investigation was concluded? The man is dead, after all," Sinclair inquired. "Frankly, I'm relieved. Deletion of personality is--" He hated the idea of that penalty. He'd always thought spacing to be kinder than wiping someone's mind by use of a technology gained from the _Dilgar_ , of all races. A mindwipe wasn't foolproof. And even when the deletion and reprogramming worked, the outcome was horrific. The recipients were employed as unskilled laborers, virtually slaves of the government, subsisting on a pittance, constantly supervised and with no social life to speak of.

"It's creepy as fuck, that's what it is," Garibaldi said, unwittingly mirroring his thoughts. He finally looked up. He had dark bags under his eyes. One corner of his mouth was raw from where he must have been biting his lip. "Have I ever told you of three instances of a mindwipe that have made sure I'll rather shove someone out of an airlock - or _be_ shoved out of an airlock should it ever come to that - than be connected to that machine?"

Sinclair pulled up a chair and sat down with a sigh. "No. Thankfully military justice doesn't use it."

"You know I once spent seven months as a guard on Beta 7, don't you? Well, the doc there fell in love with a pharma rep. Real knockout. They got married, appeared right happy. Only she got quiet, started having seizures. One day her brother showed up, a psi cop in tow. Turned out the doc had misused his medlab's tech, wiped her mind and programmed her to love him. Right out of a dimestore novel, right?" He scrubbed at his eyes. "We all joked about it, you know? Beauty and the beast. None of us saw what was right under our noses."

Sinclair didn't let his disgust and horror show, just put a hand on his friend's shoulder in silent support.

"A friend of mine on Io told me about a case of robbery and arson in a medlab there. It took them two weeks to run down the perps. By then, they'd cut a swathe through law enforcement and rival gangs alike. Drooling messes everywhere. The case never gained much traction in the news, though. Wonder why." Sinclair hated the cynical, defeatist tone to Garibaldi's voice. "The third case can be laid at the psi corps' door. A colony out on the Rim. Local telepath helped hunt down a serial killer. Went into the guy's head and confirmed he was the psycho they'd been looking for. They wiped him. Too bad the killings didn't stop after. In the end they found out the teep had lied. Childhood rivalry. Just plain hated the guy. Hilarious, right?"

"Yes, a real riot," Sinclair confirmed. "Thank you for the pictures I now have in my head. Seriously, thanks."

Garibaldi gave a half-smile. "My pleasure." He fell silent for a moment, then added more quietly, "I mean it - thank you for listening, Jeff. As for your earlier question: The investigation has turned up a list of potential other victims of Mueller's. I'm going through their case files, one by one. Their families deserve to know the truth."

Sinclair took notice of the careful wording. If his friend wanted to give him plausible deniability, there had to be a reason. "I'll make sure you take a break in an hour. No discussion."


	22. Post-1x22 "Chrysalis"

Dr. Franklin had tried to give him the usual spiel about staying behind the observation glass, keeping Michael's isolab room sterile and whatnot. Sinclair hadn't listened.

"I almost lost you today, old friend," Sinclair whispered, "I still might." Aside from a liberal application of disinfectant, his one concession to Franklin's badgering had been the light grey nurse smock he'd donned. He'd fought successfully against the face mask and the gloves. He'd wanted Michael to recognize him if he ever drifted back up from under the haze of narcotics that were being pumped into his body.

Sinclair's fingers tightened around the cooler ones lying lax in his grip.

"Ever since my memories of the Line have been slowly coming back, I've felt as though we were moving closer and closer to a wide, fathomless abyss hidden in shadows," he confessed, "As though we were on a precipice, and just one more step would lead to the end of all we've known. Well, we've now stepped off that cliff." Holding Michael's hand was comforting. His unfocused gaze clung to his friend's even, artificial breathing. 

_We haven't yet arrived at the bottom. There is still time. Not a lot, but some._

"Earthforce One was destroyed, President Santiago is dead. My - your - warnings about it having been an assassination are being ignored. The Narn military outpost in Quadrant 37 was annihilated by an unknown force. Delenn wanted to tell me something. She indicated that she would be going against the orders of her government in doing so. But now she's in some kind of chrysalis. Ambassador Kosh seems to know more." He swallowed and pressed the hand in his more tightly.

"Wake up, _please_ , Mike. Whatever is behind all these events, I'm _certain_ we'll be able to salvage some small seed of peace out of the rubble. I refuse to give up on the Babylon Project's mission. But for that, I need you by my side."

The rhythm of Michael's breathing didn't change. The medical equipment's readouts remained the same. Sinclair noticed with a level of detachment entirely free of embarrassment that there were a couple of dark spots forming on the sheet covering Michael's chest. He swiped a hand under his eyes and continued haltingly: "When Medlab informed me you were being rushed there, all I could think of was how long you'd been missing and the death of your informant. Damn it all to hell!"

He dropped Michael's hand and surrendered to his need to pace furiously. Jack Benedict, he noticed, had left Lou Welch on guard and was hopefully back to personally running the investigation into the attack on his superior.

"When you wake up--" The realization he'd come to was so vast, so overwhelming, that the words seemed to form a hot, spiky ball that stuck in his throat. "I'm no longer sure I can marry Catherine. It seems there is someone else in my life I have romantic feelings for." He stopped, leant over Michael and tried to smile. "In retrospect, it seems as though you - as usual - have arrived at this conclusion long before my blind, obstinate, uptight self."

Sinclair checked, but Michael didn't miraculously wake. Welch was talking to Dr. Franklin. Neither was paying attention.

 _Even so, what does it matter? Let them look_ , a rebellious part inside of him said. Driven by a sense of urgency he couldn't explain, Sinclair bent down and pressed a reverent kiss to his friend's mouth, avoiding the breathing tube and the salve protecting Michael's cracked lips. It was neither the time nor the place. Michael was unconscious. It was more a declaration of intent than a real kiss.

Still, there was a sweetness to it that broke Sinclair's heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I've rewatched the entire first season, over 20 years after the fact, and this time with the knowledge of the entire series in the back of my head as well as the reason as to why Michael O'Hare really left _Babylon 5_.
> 
> It was bittersweet. It was beautiful. And far, far too short.
> 
> I'll always keep wondering 'what if'?


End file.
